Chapter 2

For two winters and part of a wet summer, John Clare went to Mr. Merrishaw's school at Glinton, during short intervals of hard labour in the fields. At the end of this period a curious accident seemed to give a sudden turn to his prospects in life. A maternal uncle, called Morris Stimson, one day made his appearance at Helpston, having been previously on a visit to his father and sisters at Castor. Uncle Morris was looked upon as a very grand personage, he holding the post of footman to a lawyer at Wisbeach, and as such clad in the finest plush and broadcloth. Being duly reverenced, the splendid uncle in his turn thought it his duty to patronize his humble friends, and accordingly was kind enough to offer little John a situation in his master's office. There was a vacancy for a clerk at Wisbeach, and Uncle Morris was sure his nephew was just the man to fill it. John himself thought otherwise; but was immediately overruled in his opinion by father, mother, and uncle. A boy who had been to Mr. Merrishaw's for ever so many evenings; who could read a chapter from the Bible as well as the parson, and who was drawing figures upon paper night after night: why, he was fit enough to be not only a lawyer's clerk, but, if need be, a minister of the church. So they argued, and it was settled that John should go to Wisbeach, and be duly installed as a clerk in the office just above the pantry in which dwelt Uncle Morris. Mr. Morris Stimson did not stop at Helpston longer than a day; but, before leaving, made careful arrangements that his nephew should follow him to Wisbeach precisely at the end of seven days.

Those were stirring seven days in the little hut of Parker Clare. The poor mother, anxious to assist to the best of her power in her son's rise in life, ransacked her scanty wardrobe to the utmost, to put John in what she deemed a proper dress. She mended all his clothes as neatly as possible; she made him a pair of breeches out of an old dress, and a waistcoat from a shawl; and then ran up and down the village to get a few more necessary things, including an old white necktie, and a pair of black woollen gloves. Thus equipped, John Clare started for Wisbeach one Friday morning in spring--date not discoverable, but supposed to be somewhere about the year 1807. The poor mother cried bitterly when John shook hands for the last time at the bottom of the village; the father tried hard to hide his tears, but did not succeed; and John himself, light-hearted at first, had a good cry when he turned his face at Elton, and got a final glimpse of the steeple of Helpston church. Beyond Elton John Clare had never been in his life, and it was with some sort of trembling, mixed with a strong feeling of homesickness, that he inquired his way to Peterborough. His confusion was great when he found that the people stared at him on the road; and stared the more the nearer he approached the episcopal city. No doubt, a thin, pale, little boy, stuck in a threadbare coat which he had long outgrown, and the sleeves of which were at his elbows; with a pair of breeches a world too large for his slender legs; with a many-coloured waistcoat, an immense pair of woollen gloves, a white necktie, and a hat half a century old, was a rare sight, even in the fen country. Poor John, therefore, had to march into Peterborough followed by the curious eyes of a hundred male and female idlers, who opened doors and windows to see him pass along. Happily the trial was not a long one, for, having discovered his way to the Wisbeach boat, he ran to it as fast as his legs would carry him, and, fairly on board, ensconced himself behind a bale of goods. Oh, how he repented having ever left Helpston, in the fatal ambition of becoming a lawyer's clerk!

The journey from Peterborough to Wisbeach, in those days, was by a Dutch canal boat--a long narrow kind of barge, drawn by one horse, with a large saloon in front for common passengers, and a little room for a possible select company behind, near the steersman. The boat only ran once a week, on Friday, from Peterborough to Wisbeach, returning the following Sunday; and, as far as it went, the passage was cheap as well as convenient--the charge for the whole distance of twenty-one miles being but eighteen-pence. But John Clare, fond though he was of water, and trees, and green fields, did not much enjoy the river journey, his heart being big with thoughts of the future. What the great lawyer to whom he was going would say, and what replies he should make, were matters uppermost in his mind. To prepare for the dreaded interview John at last set himself to compose an elaborate speech, on the model of one which he had seen in the 'Royal Magazine' at Mr. Merrishaw's school. The speech, however, was not quite ready when the boat stopped at Wisbeach, landing John Clare, together with the other passengers. One more source of trouble had to be overcome here. When the young traveller inquired for the house of Mr. Councillor Bellamy, the people, instead of replying, stared at him. 'Mr. Councillor Bellamy? _You_ are not going to Mr. Bellamy's house?' said more than one of the Wisbeach citizens, until poor John got fairly frightened. He was still more frightened when he at last arrived before the house of Mr. Councillor, and found that it was a stately building, bigger and nobler-looking than any he had ever entered in his life. He had not courage enough to ring the bell or knock at the door, but stood irresolute at the threshold. At last John ventured a faint tap at the door; and, luckily, Uncle Morris appeared in answer to the summons, and welcomed the visitor by leading him down into the kitchen, where the board was spread. 'I have told master about your arrival,' said Uncle Morris; 'and meanwhile sit down to a cup of tea. Do not hang your head, but look up boldly, and tell him what you can do.' John sat down to the table, yet was unable to eat anything, in fear and trembling of the things to come. It was not long before Mr. Councillor Bellamy made his appearance. Poor John tried hard to keep his head erect as ordered, and made a convulsive effort to deliver himself of the first sentences of his prepared speech. But the words stuck in his throat. 'Aye, aye; so this is your nephew, Morris?' now said Mr. Councillor Bellamy, addressing his footman. 'Yes, sir,' replied the faithful servant; 'and a capital scholar he is, sir.' Mr. Councillor glanced at the 'scholar' from the country--at his white necktie, his little coat, and his large breeches. 'Aye, aye; so this is your nephew,' Mr. Councillor repeated, rubbing his hands; 'well, I _may_ see him again.' With this Uncle Morris's master left the room. He left it not to return; and John Clare had never in his life the honour of seeing Mr. Councillor Bellamy again. There next came an order from the upper regions to make Morris's nephew comfortable till Sunday morning, and to put him, at that time, on board the Peterborough boat for the return journey. The behest of Mr. Councillor was duly executed, and John Clare, on the following Sunday evening, after three days' absence, again walked into his father's cottage at Helpston, a happier and a wiser lad. He had discovered the great truth that he was not fit for the profession of the law.

JOHN CLARE CONTINUES TO STUDY ALGEBRA, AND FALLS IN LOVE.

The mother cried for joy when her John again entered the little cottage; but the father welcomed him with a melancholy smile. John himself, though with a little mortified vanity, felt rather pleased than otherwise. His good sense told him that this journey to Wisbeach had been but a fool's errand, and that, in order to rise in the world, he had to look into other directions than to a lawyer's office. He therefore fell back with a strong feeling of contentment into his old occupation, holding the plough, carting manure to the field, and studying algebra. In the latter favourite labour he was much assisted by a young friend, whose acquaintance he had made at Glinton school, named John Turnill, the son of a small farmer. The latter, having a little more money at his command than his humble companion, was able to purchase the necessary books, as well as a modest allowance of paper and pencils, the gift of which threw John Clare into ecstasies of delight. With Master Turnill, the attachment to mathematics and algebra was a real love, though it was otherwise with Clare, who pursued these studies solely out of ambition, and with a hope of raising himself in the world. The desire to improve his position became stronger than ever after his return from Wisbeach. The sneers of the people who met him during the journey had sunk deep into his sensitive mind, and he determined to make a struggle for a better position. How far mathematics and the pure sciences would help him on the road he did not trouble himself to consider; he only had a vague notion that they would lead him to be a 'scholar.' So he toiled with great energy through the algebraic and mathematical handbooks purchased by friend Turnill, often getting so warm on the subject as to neglect his dinner-hour, in brown studies over the _plus_ and _minus_, squares, cubes, and conic sections. Every evening that he could possibly spare he walked over to Turnill's house, near Elton, regardless of wind, rain, and snow, and regardless even of the reproaches of his kind parents, who began to be afraid of his continued dabbling in the occult arts. However, little John stuck to his algebra, and it was nearly two years before he discovered that he was as little fit to be a mathematician as a lawyer's clerk.

Meanwhile, and before the algebraic studies came to an end, there occurred a somewhat favourable change in the circumstances of John Clare. Among the few well-to-do inhabitants of Helpston was a person named Francis Gregory, who owned a small public-house, under the sign of the 'Blue Bell,' and rented, besides, a few acres of land. Francis Gregory, a most kind and amiable man, was unmarried, and kept house with his old mother, a female servant, and a lad, the latter half groom and half gardener. This situation, a yearly 'hiring,' being vacant, it was offered to John, and eagerly accepted, on the understanding that he should have sufficient time of his own to continue his studies. It was a promise abundantly kept, for John Clare had never more leisure, and, perhaps, was never happier in his life than during the year that he stayed at the 'Blue Bell.' Mr. Francis Gregory, suffering under constant illness, treated the pale little boy, who was always hanging over his books, more like a son than a servant, and this feeling was fully shared by Mr. Gregory's mother. John's chief labours were to attend to a horse and a couple of cows, and occasionally to do some light work in the garden or the potato field; and as these occupations seldom filled more than part of the day or the week, he had all the rest of the time to himself. A characteristic part of Clare's nature began to reveal itself now. While he had little leisure to himself, and much hard work, he was not averse to the society of friends and companions, either, as in the case of Turnill, for study, or, as with others, for recreation; but as soon as he found himself, to a certain extent, his own master, he forsook the company of his former acquaintances, and began to lead a sort of hermit's life. He took long strolls into the woods, along the meres, and to other lonely places, and got into the habit of remaining whole hours at some favourite spot, lying flat on the ground, with his face toward the sky. The flickering shadows of the sun; the rustling of the leaves on the trees; the sailing of the fitful clouds over the horizon, and the golden blaze of the sky at morn and eventide, were to him spectacles of which his eye never tired, with which his heart never got satiated. And as he grew more and more the constant worshipper of nature, in any of her aspects, so his mind gradually became indifferent to almost all other objects. What men did, what they had done, or what they were going to do, he did not seem to care for, or had the least curiosity to know. In the midst of these solitary rambles from his 'Blue Bell' home, the news was brought of some extraordinary discoveries at Castor, his mother's native village. It was news which, one might have thought, would fire the imagination of any man gifted with the most ordinary understanding. In a part of the township of Castor called Dormanton Fields, the greater part of the vast ruins of Durobrivae were discovered: temples and arches crumbled into dust; many-coloured tiles and brickwork; urns and antique earthen vessels; and coins, with, the images of many emperors--so numerous that it looked as if they had been sown there. To reconstruct the ancient Roman city, to people it anew with the conquerors of the world, was a task at once undertaken by zealous antiquarians; yet Clare, though he heard the matter mentioned by numerous visitors to the 'Blue Bell,' and had plenty of time for investigation, took so little interest in it as not even to attempt a walk to the city of ruins, on the borders of which he was feeding his cattle. Now, as up to a late period of his life, a bunch of sweet violets was worth to John Clare more than all the ruins of antiquity.

While at the 'Blue Bell' John gradually dropped his algebra and mathematics, and began to read ghost-stories. The reason of his leaving the 'sciences called pure' was the discovery that the further he proceeded on the road the more he saw his utter incapacity to understand and to master the subjects. His friend and guide, John Turnill,--subsequently promoted to a post in the excise--was equally unable to throw light into the darkness of _plus_ and _minus_, and after a few last convulsive struggles to get through the 'known quantities' into the unknown regions of _x_, _y_, and _z_, he gave it up as a hopeless effort. The spare hours henceforth were devoted to studies of a very different kind, namely, fairy tales and ghost stories. Under the roof of the 'Blue Bell' no other literature was within his reach, and he was quite content to draw temporary nourishment from it. Scarcely any books but these highly spiced ones, stuffed in the pack of travelling pedlars, ever found their way to Helpston. There was 'Little Red Riding-hood,' 'Valentine and Orson,' 'Sinbad the Sailor,' 'The Seven Sleepers,' 'Mother Shipton,' 'Johnny Armstrong,' 'Old Nixon's Prophecy,' and a whole host of similar 'sensation' stories, printed on coarse paper, with a flaming picture on the title-page. John Clare scarcely knew that there were any other books than these and the few he had seen at Glinton school in existence; he had never heard of Shakespeare and Milton, Thompson and Cowper, Spenser and Dryden; and, therefore, with the natural eagerness of the young mind just awoke to its day dreams, eagerly plunged into the new realm of fancy. The effect soon made itself felt upon the ardent reader, fresh from his undigested algebraic studies. He saw ghosts and hobgoblins wherever he went, and after a time began to look upon himself as a sort of enchanted prince in a world of magic. He had no doubt whatever about the literal truth of the stories he read; the thought of their being mere pictures of the imagination not entering his mind for a moment. It was natural, therefore, that he should come to the conclusion that, as the earth had been, so it was still peopled with fairies, dwarfs, and giants, with whom it would be his fate to come into contact some time or other. So he buckled his armour tight, ready to do battle with the visible and invisible world.

Opportunity came before long. Among his regular duties at the 'Blue Bell' was that of fetching once a week flour from Maxey, a village some three miles north of Helpston, near the Welland river. The road to Maxey was a very lonely one, part of it a narrow footpath along the mere, and the superstition of the neighbourhood connected strange tales of horror and weird fancy with the locality. In the long days of summer, John Clare, who had to start on his errand to the mill late in the afternoon, managed to get home before dark, thus avoiding unpleasant meetings; but when the autumn came, the sun set before he left Maxey, and then the ghosts were upon him. They always attacked him half way between the two villages, in a low swampy spot, overhung by the heavy mist of the fens. Poor John battled hard, but the spirits nearly always got the upper hand. They pulled his hair, pinched his legs, twisted his nose, and played other tricks with him, until he sank to the ground in sheer exhaustion. Recovering himself after a while, the fairies then let him alone, and he staggered home to the 'Blue Bell,' pale and trembling, and like one in a dream. His good friend and master, Francis Gregory, wondering at the haggard look of the lad, thought he was going to have another attack of the tertiary ague, and spoke to his parents; but John, in his silent mood, said it was nothing, and begged to be left alone. So they let him have his way, and he continued his weekly errands to Maxey, with the same result as before. At last, when thoroughly wearied of this repetition of supernatural terrors, he hit upon an ingenious plan for breaking the chain connecting him with the invisible world. The plan consisted in concocting, on his own part, a story of wonders; a story, however, 'with no ghost in it.' Now a king, and now a prince--in turn a sailor, a soldier, and a traveller in unknown lands--John himself was always the hero of his own story, and, of course, always the lucky hero. With his vast power of imagination, this calling up of a new world of bright fancies to destroy the lawless apparitions of the air had the desired effect, and the ghosts troubled John Clare no more on his way to and from the mill.

Nevertheless, his constant reading of fairy tales, with incessant play on the imagination and surexcitation of the mind, was not without leaving its ill effect upon the bodily frame. John sickened and weakened visibly, and his general appearance became the talk of the village. His long solitary roamings through the woods and fields, his habits of reading even when tending the cattle, and his apparent dislike to hold converse with any one, were things which the poor labourers, young and old, could not understand; and when, as it happened, people met him on the road to Maxey in the dark, and heard that he was talking to himself in a loud excited manner, they set him down as a lunatic. Some few of the coarsest among the youngsters went so far as to greet him with volleys of abuse when he happened to come near them, while the old people drew back from him as in disgust. His sensitive feelings suffered deep under this treatment of his neighbours, which might have had the worst consequences but for one great event which suddenly broke in upon him. John Clare fell in love.

'Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.'

John Clare's first love--the deepest, noblest, and purest love of his whole life--was for 'Mary,' the Mary of all his future songs, ballads, and sonnets. Petrarch himself did not worship his Laura with a more idealized spirit of affection than John Clare did his Mary. To him; she was nothing less than an angel, with no other name than that of Mary; though vulgar mortals called her Mary Joyce, holding her to be the daughter of a well-to-do farmer at Glinton. John Clare made her acquaintance--if so it can be called what was the merest dream-life intercourse--on one of his periodical journeyings to and from the Maxey mills. She sat on a style weaving herself a garland of flowers, and the sight so enchanted him that he crouched down at a distance, afraid to stir and to disturb the beautiful apparition. But she continuing to sit and to weave her flowers, he drew nearer, and at last found courage to speak to her. Mary did not reply; but her deep blue eyes smiled upon him, lifting the humble worshipper of beauty into the seventh heaven of bliss. And when he met her again, she again smiled; and he sat down at her feet once more, and opened the long pent-up rivers of his heart. Mute to all the world around him, he to her for the first time spoke of all he felt, and dreamt, and hoped. He told her how he loved the trees and flowers, and the singing nightingales, and the lark rising into the skies, and the humming insects, and the sailing clouds, and all the grand and beautiful works of nature. But he never told her that he thought her more beautiful than ought else in God's great world. This he never said in words, but his eyes expressed it; and Mary, perhaps, understood the language of his eyes. Mary always listened attentively, yet seldom said anything. Her eyes hung upon his lips, and his lips hung upon her eyes, and thus both worshipped the god of love.

The sweet dream lasted full six months--six glorious sunlit months of spring and summer. Then the father of Mary Joyce heard of the frequent meetings of his daughter with John Clare, and though looking upon both as mere children, he sternly forbid her to see 'the beggar-boy' again. His heart of well-to-do farmer revolted at the bare idea of his offspring talking with the son of one who was not even a farm-labourer, but had to be maintained as a pauper by the parish. Explaining this great fact to his blue-eyed daughter, he deeply impressed its terrible importance upon her soft little heart, making her think with a sort of shudder of the pale boy who told her such pretty stories. Perhaps Mary nevertheless preserved a lingering fondness for her little lover's memory, for though many wooed her in after life, she never wedded, and died a spinster. As for John Clare, he fretted long and deeply, and all his life thought of Mary Joyce as the symbol, ideal, and incarnation of love. With the exception of a few verses addressed to 'Patty,' his future wife, the whole of Clare's love poetry came to be a dedication and worship of Mary. As yet, in these youthful days of grief and affection, he wrote no verses, though he felt a burning desire to give vent to his feelings in some shape or other. Having lost his Mary, he carved her name into a hundred trees, and traced it, with trembling hand, on stones, and walls, and monuments. There still stands engraven on the porch of Glinton churchyard--or stood till within a recent time--a circular inscription, consisting of the letters, 'J. C. 1808,' cut in bold hand, and underneath, in fainter outline, the name 'Mary.'

TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF A BOOK.